Mon, 16 Jan 2017 22:17:05 -0800WeeblyTue, 17 Jan 2017 03:16:08 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/four-books-to-pass-up​This year I read four underwhelming books by writers whose work I’ve enjoyed in the past. How in the world could Bill Bryson, Emma Donoghue, Anne Tyler and Fannie Flagg write disappointing books? How could Fannie Flagg’s humorous feminism possibly go awry? How could Bill Bryson and Emma Donoghue possibly write boring books? How could Anne Tyler – of all people -- write something I CAN put down?

The Road to Little Dribbling by Bill Bryson. Oh my, Bill. I used to say I would read your grocery list if I had the chance. I’m sure it would be hilarious. You’re such a good writer – wry, funny, ironic, clever, full of new information. The Road to Little Dribbling started out that way. I enjoyed it until about half way through when it dissolved into a monotonous, repetitious diary of “what I did today.”

Stopped in suchandsuch town; parked my car; walked 20 miles including down to the seashore, then through the main street, where there was a greengrocer, two pubs, a jeweler, a coffee shop and a shoe store. Then I got in my car and drove to soandso town, where I parked far away because in-town parking was so freaking expensive; walked down High Street, where there were three pubs, a shoe store, a greengrocer, a coffee shop, a pet shop and a jeweler.

Bryson’s One Summer, America, 1927 was wonderful. At Home was very good. A Walk in the Woods, Notes from a Small Island, A Sunburned Country – all were wonderful travel memoirs. But The Road to Little Dribbling? Zzzzzzz. I finished it, just because I admire his former books, but the denouement was a snoozer. So sorry. Try me again, Bill. ★★ out of four stars.

Vinegar Girl by AnneTyler. I also expected something special from Anne Tyler. This novel was supposed to be a modern take on Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. Great premise. Kate is the protagonist/shrew. She is grumpy, acerbic, painfully direct, insulting and --- let’s face it . . . she’s a shrew (which I surmise is the Shakespearean term for bitch). She has no boyfriend and is considered an old maid at age 27. She works as an aide at a preschool and doesn’t much like her job. Her younger sister, Bunny (a la Bianca in the Taming of the Shrew) is 15 and surrounded by adoring young men. Their father is a research scientist, absorbed in his work and often neglectful of his daughters. Their mother is dead.

Kate does the cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing, shopping, gardening – everything around the house – plus she holds down that unrewarding job. She’s the family slave. No wonder she’s so shrewish/bitchy.

Her father’s research assistant is Pyotr Cherbakov, and father wants Kate to marry him so Pyotr can get his green card and stay in the United States to complete their joint project – something involving autoimmunity and lots of lab mice. In spite of Kate’s dislike of Pyotr, she (inexplicably!) agrees to marry him. Father is ecstatic. How the marriage succeeds (or fails) is so unbelievable and so weird, I suspended my suspension of disbelief. The characters were not provided with any motivation; Pyotr wasn’t even mildly appealing; Kate was truly a shrew; Bunny was a ditzy airhead. Come on, Anne, dazzle me with some more good novels about real people with complicated, believable relationships. ★★ out of four stars.

The Wonder by Emma Donoghue. This – and the next one – are the only novels I’ve read in the last 10 years that (in my view) deserve fewer than two stars. Donoghue’s Room was terrific, but oh, my, this one is a snoozer. Nothing happens. Nothing, that is until the protagonist, Lib, a nurse trained by Florence Nightengale Herself, finally takes action in the last 50 pages. I wonder how many readers got as far as the last 50 pages.

The first part of the novel is page after page after page of descriptions of Anna, a dying girl. Anna and her mother claim that Anna has been living for four months without eating. When Lib meets her, she appears plump and healthy. Lib’s task, given to her by a committee of Irish Catholic nutcases, is to discover how Anna is secretly being fed. Page after page after page of nothing. The ending is far-fetched and contrived. ★ out of four stars. Please don’t waste time reading this. Take a nap instead.

The Whole Town’s Talking by Fannie Flagg. I couldn’t even finish this snore fest. I gave up about three quarters of the way into it. It has a nice premise – the people in the town cemetery are talking to each other. They’re all from the same community and when someone new arrives, they catch up on town gossip, talk amongst themselves, marvel at the changes in the town where they all lived. But it is predictable and boring and trite.

Fannie Flagg wrote Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café, and Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven and The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion – all winners. She’s usually funny, quirky and down to earth. But this The Whole Town’s Talking gets ★ out of four stars. ]]>Wed, 04 Jan 2017 02:25:23 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/books-i-enjoyed-in-2016I read two dozen books last year; about two a month. I keep a list, with comments about each one, and a rating of one to four stars. I usually include the names of the main characters and a hint at the plot, so I can remember the book later on without too much trouble. I've done this for the last nine years and I'll do it again in 2017.

Some of these books were terrific. Some were duds. Here are four that I rated four stars. For my next blog, I'll describe a few of the worst ones.

Why do I finish reading unsatisfying books? After all, I'm 76, and I don't have a lot of time to waste on trashy reading material. Sometimes it's just to see how the author resolves a convoluted plot. Sometimes it's to see how bad the writing can get. Then I pat myself on the back while whispering: "I could do better than that."

I haven't though. Done better, that is. Writing a novel is damn hard work. I tried it, twice. Both are unfinished and I have no freaking idea how to complete them.

Here are four books I thought were worth reading

The Nest by Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney. A wonderfully written story of the Plumb family – four siblings: Leo, the charming sweet-talking womanizer; Beatrice, the widow, a writer of fiction; Jack, the gay antiques dealer who keeps a secret from his husband, Walker; and Melody, a.k.a. Walt’s wife, who lives in an upscale suburb and tries to be the perfect mother to their twin teenage daughters. The four siblings are soon to share an inheritance, which they call “the nest.” But Leo, the reckless one, has an accident and their mother uses a good portion of “the nest” to bail him out. The others want him to repay them, as each sibling has a pressing need for a windfall. I loved this and couldn’t put it down. ★★★★ out of four stars.

Georgia by Dawn Tripp. This fictionalized biography of Georgia O’Keeffe was fascinating. It starts when well-known photographer Alfred Stieglitz notices her talent and brings her to New York City. They become lovers, even though he is married and a father. They live together; he gets divorced; they marry. But. During her whole career as an artist, he tells her what is good, what to do, what to display, and so on. He apparently loves her and wants her to succeed, but he is controlling. She rebels. She holds back a little at first; then more; then at last she moves out and blazes her own trail. She struggles all her life for artistic freedom and the chance to follow her own ideas. Even though it got a bit abstract and murky at times, I liked this. ★★★★ out of four stars.

The Wife by Meg Wolitzer. A nicely written story of a marriage. The first scene is on an airplane headed for Helsinki, where Joan Castleman’s husband Joe is about to receive a much-touted literary award for his novels. He’s written many. Joan is the dutiful wife of the 1950s and 60s, the one who sacrificed her own dreams of becoming a writer to support and help her husband achieve his phenomenal success. The rest of the book delves into their shared history together – he the unhappily married college teacher of writing; she the adoring student. They drift into an affair; he divorces his wife; they marry; have children. She is always working beside him – talking about his stories, reviewing dialogue, suggesting plot twists and turns, fleshing out his characters. She’s in her 60s now and decides, on the plane to Helsinki, that she’s going to leave him. The rest of the book tells why and what happens. I liked this a lot. ★★★★ out of four stars.

Eligible by Curtis Sittenfeld. Although this started out with a promising storyline - a present-day retelling of the familiar plot of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, it collapsed somewhere two-thirds into the story. The Bennet family is presented: Mrs. Bennett, a mother obsessed with marrying off her five daughters to Men With Money; Mr. Bennett, indifferent yet indulging his wife's materialistic obsession; Liz, the protagonist, who knows her own mind and is determined to choose her own husband and live her own life according to her own rules; Jane, Liz’s older sister and best friend; Mary, the middle daughter, somewhat of a loner and the least attractive of the five; and Lydia and Kitty, the two younger daughters who are selfish, flighty and superficial. Chip Bingly is Jane’s suitor. And then -- ta da -- we meet the irascible Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the PERFECT man. Sittenfeld has cleverly transformed Darcy into a surgeon, Liz into a journalist, Mary into a scholar, Jane into a woman who wants a child badly --with or without a husband. The whole plot centers around Chip’s appearance on a reality show, “Eligible,” which resembles our present-day super-tacky reality show, “The Bachelor.” It’s clever also, how Sittenfeld manages to tell the well-known Austen story, but in present day terms with cell phones, airplanes, Crossfit exercise routines, paleo diets and mixed up relationships involving race and gender. It got a bit ridiculous toward the end, but I loved this anyway. ★★★★ ]]>Tue, 26 Jul 2016 00:22:45 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/invigorate-meI just realized my shampoo and my gasoline contain something called Invigorate. Invigorate with a capital I.

Wow. I’m covered. Energetic, perky engine AND energetic, perky hair.

I should be giving my undivided attention to more important concerns, like where this presidential election is going with all its nasty nitpicking, bullying, backbiting, and middle school-style name-calling. I AM paying attention and I’m appalled. I'm worried.

We have two terrible alternatives. One of these people will actually become our next elected president.

I should also be worrying more about global warming, the vanishing rain forests, the possible extinction of Monarch butterflies and whatever is happening to honeybees. I should be more up-in-arms about police brutality and immigration policies and terrorists and unhinged people who shoot up shopping malls.

I AM paying attention and I’m scared witless about these issues. The world is going to hell in the proverbial handbasket.

But my shampoo promises invigorating clean for all hair types as well as an infusion of 100 percent natural rosemary and mint, two herbs that its label claims are known for their invigorating properties. I suppose this is a good thing.

The gasoline I prefer -- BP – also contains Invigorate. I wondered how this works. Presumably not with herbs.

I suppose the addition of invigorating rosemary and mint also deep cleans my hair more efficiently and gives me more frequent good hair days.

In my view, our presidential choices are terrible. But isn’t this what democracy is? Majority rules. I am not the majority, apparently. Democracy is the best government yet, but it isn’t perfect.

Neither is my shampoo.

Nor my gasoline.

I'm feeling a tad discouraged and depressed. I wonder if this "Invigorate" stuff is edible.​#########################################]]>Tue, 23 Feb 2016 20:30:16 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/phyllisI lost a good friend last week. She was part of my writing group. We all wrote something about how we remember Phyllis and we read them at our meeting earlier this week.

This is what I wrote:

Phyllis even tried my stupid hot dog casserole recipe.

She was ever ready to explore new things – new recipes, new books, new theatrical productions, new skills, new travel experiences, new people. Especially new people. She was an INcluder, not an EXcluder, as so many are these days.

She was curious, intelligent, interesting, a great story teller and a loyal friend. She had a wonderful sense of humor. I loved it when she laughed so heartily tears rolled down her cheeks.

I met Phyllis in the 1990s when I worked for a local community newspaper. She contacted the paper about the young adult novel she had just published: One for Sorrow, Two for Joy. I was asked (or maybe I volunteered – I can’t remember) to write about Phyllis for the paper’s weekly personality profile.

Phyllis was delighted. We set up an appointment. I read the book. Then I went to her house to interview her about the book and take a couple of photos. She even had her hair and nails done professionally, so she’d look good in the pictures. She did look good.

The book? That was a story itself – why she wrote it, how she wrote it, how she got it into print. But I learned so much more about Phyllis that day – the exchange students she and her husband had invited into their home for many years; her early jobs; her training for working with deaf children; her daughter, who is deaf; her son; her travels; and on and on.

It was too much to put into one measly article that was supposed to be a short personality profile of a local resident. I wrote the piece mostly about her book, but Phyllis was a multi-dimensional lady.

Some 10 years later, I ran into Phyllis again, at Curves, an exercise franchise that caters to women and promises a 30-minute complete workout. Phyllis was on the exercise machine next to me.

Never shy, “Are you Margie Reins Smith?” she asked.

We were reacquainted immediately. Gradually I learned about her health problems, including a battle with breast cancer. Phyllis was still going strong, however. She was a walking-talking-exercising rechargeable battery.

Time went on and I ended up joining Phyllis’s writing group. There were about six of us then, all with writing projects – novels, travel memoirs, plays, essays and short stories. Phyllis never missed a word, a sentence, a chance to comment, a chance to help the other writers. She took criticism and suggestions about her own projects.

She often forgot her hearing aids, so if she DID miss a word, she stopped us and asked for a repeat.

By then she was in her mid-80s, which might be considered “old” by some. I don’t think either Phyllis or her husband ever ever thought they were old. They might admit to senior citizen status, but never never never OLD.

Phyllis read her work to us – her poems, which were wickedly clever; her short plays which were humorous observations about common human shortcomings; a few short stories; and a collection of letters to her parents that she wrote in the 1950s.

When they were young women in their 20s, Phyllis and a girlfriend sailed to Europe and traveled for three months. Phyllis wrote home almost every day. She asked her parents to keep the letters, which she later put together as a travel journal.

They were wonderful letters. She told about sightseeing, about learning to communicate in a different language, about some skirmishes with her girlfriend, and about several young men she met – some of them hopelessly smitten with her, and about the wonders of travel and the thrill of trying new experiences.

Even then, Phyllis was eager to try new things.

Phyllis is my role model for growing older. Older, not OLD. She was a rechargeable battery. An explorer. An INcluder.

For Pete’s sake, she even tried my Hot Dog Casserole recipe, which was a joke. I don’t think it turned out well for her (probably my fault, as I forgot one step in its preparation) but she, her husband and daughter ate it anyway.

​They are missing her terribly. So am I.]]>Mon, 22 Jun 2015 14:56:30 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/a-walk-in-the-parkTwo days before my 75th birthday, I did a 5K. I am not an athlete. Never have been. Never won a medal for a physical feat of any ilk. My middle daughter is the athlete of the family and the other two daughters are no slouches. I play golf and pickleball and I used to play tennis, but I am not competitive and I never rose above the mediocre classification in any of these sports. Nevertheless, I joined seven other women -- fellow pickleball players -- for a 5K/10K walk/run in downtown Detroit. It was what a friend used to call “a bluebird morning:” Sunny; bright blue sky; temperature in the high 60s; light breeze; spring flowers and trees in bloom. The event was sponsored by Blue Cross Blue Shield of Michigan as a fundraiser for The Detroit Riverfront Conservancy. Oh, do I need to clarify? We chose the walk, not the run. We are all senior citizens. A 5K is only 3.1 miles. I figured I probably walk three miles at a stretch while shopping at The Somerset Collection or volunteering at the DIA. A 5K walk? Piece of cake. The Detroit River Walk is a groomed trail that meanders along the Detroit River from the Ambassador Bridge to Belle Isle. We mingled with men and women of all ages, races, sizes and abilities. The route began beside the river, then meandered around some side streets and finished back at the riverfront in Rivard Plaza. We arrived early and picked up our T shirts. We each got a numbered badge which was to be pinned on the front of the shirt. Imbedded in each badge was an electronic code to record the exact time we crossed the start and finish lines. The badges also included our names and ages. In the event of my collapse and/or death during the walk, I thought, someone would be able to accurately identify my body. The runners started at 9 a.m. Start time for the walkers was 9:20 a.m. Five of our group maneuvered to the front of pack and began walking close to the official start time, but Lynne and I found ourselves farther back. There were thousands of people ahead of us; several hundred people behind us. It was a lovely day. We admired the sunshine glinting off the rippled waters of the Detroit River. We watched the passing freighters, guessing what their cargos might be. We noted the landscaped areas, the conveniently placed benches, the flower beds, the budding trees, the screeching seagulls, the small wooden boxes on platforms where people could borrow a book on the honor system or leave a book for someone else. We talked. At the water stations, we stopped and sipped and thanked the volunteers. We took pictures with our cell phones. We offered to take pictures of other groups with their cell phones. As we sauntered past the 4K marker, we looked over our shoulders. There had been a crowd behind us at the starting line. Where were they? I realized, then that this was a RACE. For most of the participants, it was more than a pleasant morning walk. As Lynne and I – and the two women who walked a few feet behind us -- neared the finish line we commented on our slowness, but linked arms as we crossed so nobody would be tagged “last.” Those embedded electronic things are extremely accurate, however. The statistics for the run and the walk arrived in my email inbox a few days later. I was ranked last. Dead Last. Lynne was second last. Does this make us losers? We each got a medal. (Everybody who finished got a medal.) I was the second oldest woman to finish the walk. One woman was in the “75 and up” age group. I looked for her name in the statistics. She beat me by about five minutes.]]>Thu, 29 Jan 2015 02:54:19 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/january-28th-2015Recommended Reading

For the last nine years – ever since I retired – I have kept a list of the books I read during the year, January through December. I usually write a paragraph or two about each one – even the duds and the ones I throw down in disgust or boredom. Here are seven books I enjoyed in 2014:The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion was a delight. The plot is a typical romantic comedy: two unsuitable people meet, argue, split up, meet again, argue, split up, meet again, and through a series of improbable adventures, eventually fall in love. (Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy, Scarlett and Rhett, Harry and Sally, etc.)One of the unsuitable partners in The Rosie Project is Don, a 39-year-old professor of genetics at a prestigious Australian university. Don is probably somewhere on the autism spectrum. He’s incredibly smart and disciplined, but lacks social skills. He wants to find a wife. THE PERFECT wife. He devises a 30-page questionnaire to screen wife-candidates for intelligence, height, weight, food tastes, social class, musical preferences, Body Mass Index, and their habits regarding smoking, drinking, coloring their hair, using makeup, and more. Lots more. He meets Rosie, a barmaid who fails to meet almost every one of Don’s standards for the project. But Rosie has a project, too. She wants to find her real father. Rosie has the social skills. Don has the scientific expertise in genetics. They join forces to test the DNA of men Rosie suspects might be her father. They collaborate, argue, break up, collaborate, argue – you see where this is going. They fall in love.Its sequel, The Rosie Effect, is almost as delightful as its predecessor. Rosie turns up – unexpectedly and unintentionally – pregnant. She’s working on her PhD and her MD degrees simultaneously and doesn’t intend to let pregnancy slow her down.

Don begins preparing for fatherhood. He researches the perfect diet for pregnant women – what to eat and what not to eat – and insists Rosie follow it; he witnesses a birth; and he decides to visit a playground, sit quietly on a nearby bench and observe small children interacting with each other. Of course, he gets arrested. How he gets out of this predicament and how he and Rosie deal with the impending birth of their baby is at times poignant, at times laugh-out-loud. Gulp by Mary Roach. Roach takes readers on a trip down the alimentary canal. The journey is informative, enlightening, at times incredibly funny. It deals with all aspects of eating – smelling, saliva production, chewing, digesting, vomiting and flatulence and more. You get the picture. It also answers that burning question: Did Elvis really die of constipation? It’s an informative and amusing read. Roach describes the workings of the gut in great, gurgling gory detail.The Unbearable Lightness of Scones and The Importance of Being Seven, both by Alexander McCall Smith. I love these stories (Smith has nearly a dozen) of Edinburgh dwellers: Matthew and Elspeth, the newlyweds; 6-year-old Bertie who is smarter than the average boy; Bertie’s overbearing overprotective mother Irene and his wimpy father, Stuart; Angus Lordie, artist; Angus’s friend Domenica; Big Lou, the owner of the local coffee shop who has a string of bad news ex-boyfriends; and more. The plots meander in and out and eventually come together here and there, now and then.

In The Unbearable Lightness of Scones, there’s also a Jacobite Pretender, a priceless “found” portrait of Robert Burns, and a gangster named Lard.

In The Importance of Being Seven, Stuart finally stands up to Irene and takes Bertie fishing; Elspeth discovers she is pregnant with not one, not two, but three babies; Angus and Domenica and their friend embark on a Tuscan vacation with two surprising results. These are gentle, palate cleanser books. They’re good to read after wolfing down a five-course meal like Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn or before tucking into Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand.Me Before You by Jojo Moyes. I loved this book. I didn’t want it to end, but was also anxious to see how it could possibly end. Actually the wind-down to the final scenes took a circuitous path that lasted a bit too long for my taste. Nevertheless, I really liked this story.

I was surprised to discover that Moyes classifies it as a romance novel. It’s much, much more. Louisa Clark, a twenty-something from a loving English family of limited means, takes a job as “companion” to Will Traynor, thirty-something former corporate wheeler dealer who – as the result of a tragic accident – is confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He’s a depressed and suicidal quadriplegic. Louise was hired by Will’s mother with the hope that she’d help him snap out of his depression and start living again. After learning of his plans to go to Dignitas, a place in Switzerland where people can commit suicide with dignity, Louise sets out to show Will that his life is valuable and worth living. She plans “outings” and “adventures.” Some are successful, others are dismal failures. But she gradually teases him out of his negative attitude. He, in turn, opens her mind to new possibilities for her heretofore ordinary life. The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin. What a charming book. It reminded me of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce and the Guernsey Literary and Sweet Potato Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Quiet, but profound. Easy-going, but introspective. Humorous. Full of real people, real motivations, real conversations, real emotions.

A.J. Fikry owns a book store on a fictional Island near Nantucket. He’s a voracious reader. The bookstore business is going downhill. He’s a recent widower, still grieving and grumping about the nasty turn his life has taken. One day, his only valuable asset, a rare copy of Tamerlane, an obscure early book of poetry by Edgar Allen Poe, is stolen. On the same day, a two-year-old child is abandoned in his book store. He adopts the child, names her Maya. His life begins to improve on all sides. Sales increase; he has a sunnier outlook; he begins a love affair with Amelia, a publisher’s rep; he gets more involved in the community; and so on. Sounds trite and predictable, but it’s done in such a charming manner one can forgive the predictability.

I’m looking for someone else who sees this as a remake of Silas Marner by George Eliot, published in 1861 and required reading for a college course I took back in the 60s called History of the Novel to 1900. Silas Marner was a snoozer, but The Storied Life of AJFikry is a dream.

]]>Tue, 04 Nov 2014 01:30:40 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/mouse-clubFor the first time in my life, I’ve hired an exterminator. That is, a pest control company. A battalion of licensed mouse killers. I’ve had mice in my garage for many years. I think this is de rigueur for a detached garage in my suburban neighborhood. I regularly purchase little square trays filled with bright blue poison-pellets. The mice gobble up the pellets and disappear. I repeat the same routine every autumn in my attic and basement, generally with satisfactory results. That is, I never actually see a mouse. Face to snout, that is. One morning last week, however, things changed. I was moseying along in my own bedroom, barefoot, minding my own business, when right there -- under my ironing board (I am one of approximately two dozen people living in North America who still irons) – as I said, right there -- under my ironing board -- was a tiny rodent staggering in ever narrowing circles, limping, stumbling, occasionally pitching forward. The attic door is next to my ironing board. Apparently, the little guy partook of the aforementioned blue pellets, then squeezed his tiny pliable body under the door between the attic and my bedroom before his head began to pound, his eyes glazed over and his little tummy started to churn. I hate to admit this: I screamed. How dumb was that? I was home alone. Who was going to hear my scream? Who was going to rescue me? And rescue me from what? A sick baby mouse? Give me credit. At least I didn’t leap onto a chair. Mr. Mouse toppled over. I slapped an empty clear plastic sweater box over him and watched him gasp and shudder. Even worse, I caught his little back leg under the edge of the box’s lid as I slid it under his piteous convulsing body. I felt bad about that. He had a perfect set of tiny whiskers; a miniscule wiggly nose; soft gray fur and a white underbelly. He was extremely cute. I flipped the sweater box – now covered with a lid -- and carried it to my garden, where I considered releasing him. A friend reminded me that he was loaded with poison and would be a toxic meal for the hawk who lives in my neighborhood or for the cats who occasionally meander through my yard, looking for a nice place to pee. So I released his little leg from between the lid and the box and let him fall back and die. I placed him gently in the trash. I realized, at that moment, that the little blue poison-pellets had been disappearing faster than in years before and I was trekking to the hardware store a couple of times a week for replacements. I broke down and – for the first time ever -- called a pest control company. The salesman made an appointment to visit two days later. I stuffed a blanket under the attic door and slept, albeit fitfully. What was I afraid of? Would another sick mouse enter my room in the middle of the night and seek comfort by jumping into bed with me? Self, I said, come on! You’re a grown woman. (A grown woman who screams like a preteen when she sees a mouse.) The exterminator salesman was charming. Business-like. Knowledgeable. Comforting. He put paper boots over his shoes before he stepped into my living room. He tuned in on my distress. He sympathized. He examined the scene of the crime. He searched for clues. He found evidence. We agreed on a time for the actual Mouse Killer to come and do the dastardly deed. A few days later, the MK arrived. I expected a Dickensian-like character: Fagin perhaps, or Uriah Heep; a skeletal, stooped over, unkempt man dressed in rags and covered with rat hairs; a sniveling, shuffling n’er do well who would wring his hands with delight as he crept around my attic and basement, sniffing out rodent nests. Hardly. The Mouse Killer was charming, knowledgeable and business-like. He also wore paper shoes. He analyzed the situation and placed his baited traps. He will be back next week to check results. He will return yet again in another few weeks. I think my pest problem is under control. If it isn’t – you can be sure I’ll write about it.]]>Wed, 15 Oct 2014 21:24:28 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/october-15th-2014

Chapter Five A short stop in Pitlochry, a charming little town in the Central Highlands, included a visit to Blair Athol distillery. It has been making Scotch for 216 years. Pitlochry, which is almost exactly in the center of Scotland, earned its favor because Queen Victoria visited in 1842 and proclaimed it one of the finest resorts in Europe. More than 100 distilleries are located in the Scottish Highlands. Scotch whiskey cannot be called Scotch unless it comes from Scotland. Duh. Not being a drinker of Scotch, I didn’t know that until now. After our tour of the distillery, we were treated to a “tasting.” Small glasses containing splashes of Scotch were distributed. “Smell it first,” said our guide. OK, I thought. Ick. “Now taste,” he said. OK. Shudder. Ick. “Now hold the glass in your hands and warm it,” he said. OK. “Now smell it. OK. No smell. Taste it.” OK. Much nicer. Good, in fact. Our guide stressed that single malt Scotch is not to be cooled with ice cubes and is not to be mixed with water -- or anything else. Point taken. We crossed into the northeastern edge of England, Northumbria, to spend a day at Alnwick Castle, home to the 12th Duke of Northumberland, Ralph Percy. Percy’s family came to England with William the Conquerer. (That would be 1066!) The castle and environs has been home to the family for more than 700 years. The castle has been restored and it contains the family’s impressive collections of furniture, arms, porcelain, art, historic artifacts and more. The garden is huge. The setting has been used for several film and television productions, including Robin Hood -Prince of Thieves, Elizabeth and two Harry Potter movies. The piece de resistance on this trip, for me, however was that I could cross off another Bucket List item. I walked along the top of Hadrian’s Wall. Surprise: It isn’t very high. Only a couple of feet in most places. The fortification was begun in 120 AD (1,894 years ago!) by the Roman Emperor Hadrian, and it eventually stretched 73 miles, the full width of northern England. Made of stone, it was originally 10-15 feet high, 8 to 10 feet wide. It included forts built at intervals of about five miles and staffed by Roman soldiers. The wall marked the northernmost boundary of the Roman Empire and was supposed to keep out those nasty Scots and Picts and Barbarians. We spent a sunny afternoon at the Housesteads Fort, which is almost in the middle of the wall, half way between Bowness-on-Solway in the West and the mouth of the Tyne River in the East. The fort included the remains of the commanding officer’s house, the headquarters, the barracks, hospital, store rooms, bathhouse and latrine, as well as dwellings for the soldiers’ families, shops and more. When the wall was phased out, people used the stones to build other things – houses, churches and boundary walls. The original stones used by the Romans are scattered all over the area. That’s why the wall doesn’t seem particularly daunting today. Hadrian’s Wall fascinates me because it’s so freaking OLD. I haven’t seen too many things that are almost 2,000 years old. The only reason we know so much about its construction, its maintenance and its use is because those Romans were so meticulous about writing things down. I’m sure we talked about Hadrian’s Wall when I took Latin I, II, III and IV, back in the late ’50s. It captured my imagination even then. In fact, my background in Latin has served quite useful over the last 50 years. Thank you Miss Campbell. (My Latin teacher.) Failte is the Scottish word for welcome. It’s pronounced FALL-chuh. We felt extremely welcome in Scotland. I loved it. Can you tell?

Chapter Four Haggis and blood pudding are Scottish delicacies. I’ve heard rumors about what’s in haggis. The rumors are true. But I didn’t realize haggis is a breakfast dish until I visited Scotland. I tried it. Tastier than I thought it would be. “Haggis is peasant food,” Vinny, our guide explained. “Cheap, greasy and nutritious.” When butchering sheep, he said, nothing was wasted. Farmers mixed up lungs, livers, hearts, windpipes and intestines (known collectively as offal), added suet, oatmeal and some spices, packed it all into the sheep’s stomach and boiled the living daylights out of it. After our first haggis-tasting, Lynne and I went to the computer in the hotel lobby and looked up the recipe. Along with the gory details for preparing this delicacy, we found an article that advised chefs to pay absolutely no attention to those who tell you to drop a large rock into the simmering pot of haggis, then after a couple of hours, “throw out the haggis and eat the rock.” Blood pudding was surprisingly good and apparently is also breakfast fare. The main ingredient is pig’s blood, along with pig’s liver, lard, breadcrumbs, oats and spices. Less intimidating offal than haggis, I’d say.

Notwithstanding haggis, the food in Scotland was fantastic. We stayed in Fort Augustus, on the southwestern end of Loch Ness, for several days. Never saw the monster. Never expected to. Loch Ness is the largest loch in Scotland -- 23 miles long and 1,000 feet deep. In comparison, Lake Superior (the deepest Great Lake) is 500 feet deep on average, with the deepest part 1,335 feet. Loch Ness holds the same amount of water as all the lochs in Great Britain put together. Loch Ness’s water is a rich dark blue/brown because it contains concentrated tannin. Monster-perfect. We spent a few hours at the Clava Cairns, a Neolithic burial site. We were able to walk around passage graves and standing stones dating from the Bronze Age (2500-1700 B.C.) Evidently Stonehenge (which I crossed off my Bucket List several years ago) is only unusual because of its size, state of preservation and perhaps a good public relations staff. Standing stone circles are a dime a dozen in Ireland, England and Scotland. The Battle of Culloden (Scots vs. English 1746) eliminated the clan system in Scotland. The Scots, led by Bonnie Prince Charlie, faced the Duke of Cumberland at Culloden, where the Scots demonstrated the Highland Charge, a battle tactic which featured a lot of threatening gestures, screaming and running full tilt toward the enemy. Alas, they were defeated anyway. The English victory led to what was dubbed “The Clearance” -- the end, for a while, of all those clans and their lovely tartans. Bonnie Prince Charlie was out; George II was in. We heard the details of the battle of Culloden from a dedicated docent, who stood far out on the actual field where the battle took place, in the rain, to tell the story and fire up our imaginations. I saw something in Scotland I’ve never seen before – thatched roofs with rocks tied to the bottom. The rocks hung down a foot or so along the edge of the roof. They keep the thatch in place. Thatch is twisted strands of straw and is remarkable for its insulating properties – keeps the houses cool in summer and warm in winter. For some reason I am fascinated by thatched roofs. Vinny talked about Scotland’s peat bogs. Peat is semi-rotted plant material formed in a wet environment. It’s cut in blocks, dried out and used for fuel. It’s also a treasure-trove of archeological material, he said. (I told you in Chapter One that he has a degree in archeology.) He said peat yields pollen, sacrificial items, tools, utensils, and the occasional bog body. Rich archeological fixin’s. We looped around the Isle of Skye, the largest of the Inner Hebrides Islands, and observed its dramatic landscape – mountains of granite, basalt and limestone, lots o’ lochs, and ruined or abandoned crofts (farms) vacated because of The Clearance. The final chapter of this series of blogs will include our day at Alnwick Castle, which was the site for filming the flying broomstick scenes in the first Harry Potter movie; and Housesteads Roman Fort on Hadrian’s Wall (another personal Bucket List item.)

Chapter Three The trip was billed as “Scotland’s Highlands and Islands.” Our first island visit was the Isle of May, a National Nature Reserve. Before boarding the ship for a short ride from the village of Anstruther to the island, we had lunch at the Anstruther Fish Bar, touted as (ta daaaaaaa…) Scotland’s Fish & Chip Shop of the Year. I’ll admit, there was quite a queue waiting to be seated and served. Naturally, I ordered the house specialty, those famous fish and chips, and hot tea. The tea was excellent. The boat was packed to the gunnels with amiable people – many of them students and birders. In order not to agitate the island birds and wildlife unduly, only one batch of humans per day is permitted on the island. We were it, that day. Hundreds of grumpy nesting terns met our boat. They protested our arrival by dive-bombing us as we went ashore. They nipped at hats, riffled hair and pooped on umbrellas, notebooks and jackets, which some held aloft to protect their hats and hair. Once we were ashore and out of tern nesting territory, we were no longer harassed. We enjoyed a lovely sunny afternoon hiking the gentle hills and trails, taking pictures and appreciating the spectacular views of sky and sea and island. In addition to the terns, we saw kittiwakes, shags, razorbills guillemots, and – my favorite -- puffins. Puffins look as if they were designed by a graphic artist who is fond of Art Deco design: stocky little black and white bodies dressed up like miniature penguins, black caps, white faces, bright orangey-red feet, huge orange beaks, and round white “faces” punctuated by black-accented eyes. They’re adorable. Their nests are in burrows, underground. I bought a local artist’s painting of a puffin. The next day we headed for the highlands, which are, as advertised, gorgeous. Hills, mountains (some snow-capped), valleys, waterfalls, pretty little lochs which can be either fresh or brackish, depending on their connection to an ocean. We visited Stirling Castle, another surviving 15th century building, an excellent example of Renaissance castle-building. Stirling played a key part in Scotland’s everlasting battle for independence, but it was not my favorite ruin. Nor my favorite castle. The guides were dressed up like historic figures: Mary Queen of Scots, James V, etc. and I thought it too contrived, too spiffed up and theatrical. To my mind, old castles should look crumbly and moldy. Ruined, actually. Stirling wasn’t. Our lodging was at Knipoch Hotel, a country house on the shore of Loch Feochan. After sidestepping the resident sheep and their inevitable residue, we moseyed down the driveway to dip our toes in the bracing waters of the loch. The next day, in the village of Oban we boarded a ferry and headed for the Isle of Mull – an island made up of undulating glacier-scoured granite, green valleys, picturesque lochs, and oodles of peat bogs and wildflowers. We went beyond Mull to the island of Iona, one of Scotland’s most sacred sites, where we toured an abbey, a cloister and a monastery that was founded by St. Columba in 563. Old. Extremely old. And suitably crumbly and moldy by my standards. The cemetery was cheek-to-jowl with gravestones. So many bodies had been buried beside the ancient buildings, the ground had actually heaved up, that is, risen. Is it possible that some day, our whole planet Earth will be so full of buried bodies we’ll all be six feet higher instead of six feet under? Back on the mainland, we drove through Glen Coe, a magnificent mountain pass. The bus stopped and parked and we got off. This, by the way, is called a “lay-by.” We had a chance to take photos of three mountains (called the Three Sisters) which form the southern wall of the pass. Our guide, Vinnie, who happened to have earned a degree in geology as well as archeology, explained alleuvial fans, lateral plains and other geological phenomena. The examples were in front of our eyes. Classroom learning pales beside this. Geology isn’t as boring as I thought it was. Apparently, this is an example of the over-quoted phrase: “Travel broadens the mind.” We checked into a hotel in Fort Augustus on the shores of the famous Loch Ness, the largest lake in Scotland. I can’t say I saw the Loch Ness Monster, nor do I believe she exists, but it’s fun to indulge in the legend as well as read and hear the breathless honest-to-goodness testimonials from those who swear they’ve see evidence that Nessie exists. The aforementioned St. Columba was the first to sight her. In the 6th century, for Pete’s sake! This rumor has been circulating for more than 1,500 years. Why stop it now? The Scottish people are a rugged, but cosmopolitan and sophisticated bunch, extremely respectful of their environment, lovers of a good story and keepers of tradition. I hope they vote to gain their independence on Thursday, Sept. 18. They’ve been fighting for it for a long, long time. In the next installment, Chapter Four, we examine some prehistoric standing stones and graves, visit the Isle of Skye, stand in the middle of the actual field where the Battle of Culloden took place and learn more than anybody needs to know about that wonderful Scottish delicacy -- haggis.

Chapter Two After Edinburgh, we visited three significant buildings in the Scottish Borders: Rosslyn Chapel, Abbotsford House and Melrose Abbey. Rosslyn Chapel may ring a bell with fans of bestselling author Dan Brown. The chapel was the setting for a turning point in The DaVinci Code, Brown’s 2003 blockbuster mystery (and subsequent movie, starring Tom Hanks). The ornate chapel, which is about seven miles south of Edinburgh, was constructed in the middle of the 15th century by Sir William St. Clair, a wealthy Scottish landowner. Every inch of its ceiling and walls is decorated with elaborate stone carvings. Every inch. That’s every freakin’ inch. Trust me. I saw. Stonemasons were the architects of the Middle Ages, according to our guide Vinny. At least one of the stonemasons’ images has been incorporated in a wall design. Rosslyn’s carvings depict pagan gods, Christian symbols, Bible stories, the St. Clair family history, Scottish history, and items related to the Knights Templar and Freemasonry. Many of the carvings are mysterious and open to imaginative interpretations.

The stonemason whose image peers down on visitors was a murderer. Here’s the story: The master mason was very good. He was proud of his accomplishments. The master had an apprentice. While the master was away, presumably in Italy to learn more about his craft, the apprentice carved a pillar even more beautiful than his master’s. When the master returned, he was so envious and incensed by his apprentice’s work, he struck the apprentice with his mallet, killing him. The master’s likeness was carved on the opposite wall, so he could forever gaze upon the work of the man he murdered. Rosslyn Chapel eventually fell out of favor, was neglected and allowed to deteriorate for several hundred years. It filled with something our docent called “the damp.” Rot, I suppose. And mildew. Even stone is susceptible to the ravages of Mother Nature. The building’s historic value was finally recognized and the restoration process – mostly achieved by trial and error – is another fascinating story. Alas, no cameras were allowed inside the chapel. Abbotsford House is a manor house built by Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) a Scotsman who wrote popular novels (Ivanhoe) and poetry (“The Lady of the Lake”). Scott bought the land in the Scottish Borders when he was 40 years old. He eventually tore down the existing structures and started building Abbotsford House. He kept building – a new room here, another room over there, a wing here, another wing there, a tower, a walled garden, a formal garden, and so on. The resulting architectural style – many wings, lots of arches and chimney pots and turrets and leaded glass and gargoyles and crenellated towers -- was admired and copied and became known as the Scottish Baronial style. Queen Victoria loved Abbotsford House. Scott was an extraordinary collector of “things.” He was partial to items related to Scottish history, but often bought stuff just because he liked it. Abbotsford became a place to display his eclectic array of rare books, medieval armor, animal antlers, antique furniture, coats of arms, paintings, and assorted oddities and mementoes. He had a crucifix supposedly owned by Mary, Queen of Scots. He owned a lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair. He had Rob Roy’s broadsword. He bought a chair made from wood salvaged from the house where William Wallace was captured. (Now there’s a stretch!) He often bought stuff even if its provenance was iffy and it was most likely not authentic. All his historic tchotchkes were mounted on Abbotsford’s walls. In some rooms they extended from door jamb to door jamb, baseboard to crown molding. I think Sir Walter was a hoarder. No cameras allowed inside Abbotsford House either. Melrose Abbey is another ruined architectural masterpiece. Scotland is chockfull of tumbled walls from old abbeys and castles and monasteries. At Melrose, I climbed the 74 slippery, moss-covered spiral stone steps, a staircase navigable only while grasping a knotted rope to keep from sliding backwards. The view at the top was worth it – a panorama of the adjoining graveyard filled with 17th and 18th century tombstones, tipsy and weathered and green with moss. A commemorative plaque marks the spot where Robert the Bruce’s heart is buried. The King of the Scots died in 1329, but wanted his heart to go on a Crusade. Somebody – what a friend he must have been! -- set off on a Crusade with the heart. The Crusader was killed, however. Robert the Bruce’s heart was found near the body, then toted back by another friend to be buried at Melrose. Ick. In Chapter Three, we visit the Isle of May, a National Nature Reserve, where our group got dive-bombed by dozens of crazy terns, then rewarded by meeting some adorable puffins. Then we head for the Highlands, which are freaking spectacular!

A recent vacation in Scotland and northern England has sifted through the minute openings of my short term memory into the cavernous storage bin of my long term memory. I’ve got to write about it now, before it gets mixed up with all that other stuff. Scotland is under-appreciated. Last June, I was was with a group of 12 people who visited Scotland by way of Cultural Encounters, a travel agency in Ann Arbor, MI, owned by Suzan Alexander. I can’t write about the whole trip in one blog entry. Nobody would read that much at one sitting. So this is

Chapter One On Wednesday, June 11, ten of us, including Suzan and her husband, Mike, flew from Detroit to Edinburgh. I love airports. I love flying. But alas, on this occasion I was seated directly in front of an 18-month-old CHILD FROM HELL who cried and whined and kicked the back of my seat, nonstop, for eight hours. What could I do? Stand up and stomp angrily off the plane? All the seats were filled. Who in their right mind would agree to exchange with me? I endured. Kept stiff upper lip. Took sleep aid, but did NOT sleep. Considered sneaking sleep aid into CHILD FROM HELL’S sippy cup. But did not, of course. We were greeted in Edinburgh by Vinny, our knowledgeable tour guide for the whole trip; Jim, our affable bus driver; and Richard, a tall, blonde, ruggedly handsome Scotsman who was looking extraordinarily appealing -- in spite of my aforementioned sleep deprivation -- in a sweater and a gorgeous knee-length kilt. I have a newly developed appreciation for men in kilts. We loaded our rumpled, weary selves onto the bus and checked into the Waldorf Astoria, a.k.a. The Caledonian, a former Victorian railway hotel at the west end of Princes Street. After lunch, we went on a bus tour of Edinburgh with commentary by Richard the kilted one. I kept dozing off, head rolled back, mouth agape. Damn. I missed a lot. I think we drove past Edinburgh Castle and the Palace of Holyroodhouse. But I’m not sure. We went through the neighborhood where Muriel Sparks’ classic novel (and eventual play and movie), “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie” took place, and, I think, we passed other interesting sites. By the way, seat belts are required for bus passengers in Scotland. A good idea, I’d say. Dinner with the group at the hotel; then an 11-hour deep, refreshing sleep. No sleep aid necessary. Our hotel room was luxurious -- wallpaper decorated with thistles, the national flower of Scotland; a six-arm brass chandelier over our beds; a towel-warmer in the cavernous bathroom; a bumbershoot in the closet in case we encountered inclement weather; and a friendly doorman decked out in a kilt (ahhh) and top hat. The hotel included a restaurant, a bar, a spa, an elegant lobby, wi-fi, and so on. This was a good time to be pampered, as we were all so freaking tired. The next day we toured the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the official residence of Queen Elizabeth when she visits Scotland. Holyroodhouse was once the home of Mary, Queen of Scots. Mary’s alleged lover, David Rizzio, was murdered in 1566 in one of the upper rooms. We saw the exact spot where the dastardly deed was done – by her jealous husband, Lord Darnley, no less. I’m starting to really REALLY love seeing men in kilts and knee socks. The Holyroodhouse audio guide was well thought-out. Each room had a number and visitors could press the number and get information about the room. We also toured the National Museum of Scotland and had lunch in its Tower restaurant overlooking Edinburgh’s charming chimney-potted roofs. Lots of chimney pots. Rows and rows of them. One for each fireplace in each apartment. They all belched smoke and soot in the old days, of course, polluting the city big time. Today, they’re picturesque. In the afternoon we drove north and east to the waterfront district of Leith for a tour of the Royal Yacht Britannia. The ship is a visual trip back to the 1950s and 60s and every inch is polished and shined and in perfect working order, including a spotless engine room. The ship has its own laundry room, sick bay, captain’s quarters, crew’s quarters, crew’s dining room, storage room for the sterling silver, another for the china, bedrooms for the Queen and the Prince, anterooms galore and a formal dining room that can serve a sit-down dinner to more than 50 well-dressed, well-mannered people. In the evening we walked to a restaurant in Edinburgh. On the way, we passed a young man with a bagpipe (in a kilt, of course) standing on the sidewalk, piping high schoolers into their senior prom. The boys were in kilts and the girls wore slinky prom gowns. Coming next: Our visit to Rosslyn Chapel, famous for its part in Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, then to Melrose Abbey and Abbotsford House, the home of Sir Walter Scott, which was crammed floor to ceiling, wall to wall with his odd collection of knickknacks and tchotchkes.

]]>Sat, 09 Aug 2014 14:53:25 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/heartburn-the-ailmentThe evening news is apparently not setting well with Americans. Watching NBC’s Nightly News with Brian Williams last week, I couldn’t help but note that advertising agencies must have done their usual meticulous market research and have concluded that news-watchers are prone to heartburn. Sometimes it’s called acid indigestion or reflux or upset stomach or gerd. Same thing. This is, apparently, a common condition with many nicknames. Four – count em! – four different medications for heartburn were advertised during a mere half hour of the day’s national news, which offered enough mayhem and misery to give a person acid indigestion completely unrelated to food intake. There were the usual troubles in the Middle East, the Ebola epidemic, the back and forth between Russia and the Ukraine separatists, ISIS' threats to Iraq AND humanitarian relief needs for Iraq’s beleaguered minorities, two hurricanes swashbuckling toward Hawaii, and the assorted crimes and misdemeanors attributed to elected officials, a handful of psychopaths and loads of ordinary folks who need anger management lessons. Prilosec was hyped by a grossly overweight, loud-mouthed middle-aged man driving too fast on a Ski Doo and doing stunts that viewers had to be warned “should not be tried at home.” This guy should probably consider portion control instead of medication for his acid indigestion. Alka Selzer Heartburn Relief was the answer proffered to a woman who, after she used the word “burn,” was visited immediately by an incredibly handsome firefighter. They looked like they were flirting with each other, too. Maybe this is an upside to heartburn. Tums was the drug of choice for a group of people dining at an outdoor restaurant. They paused, forks midair, to watch a human-sized Italian-speaking meatball parachute smack into the middle of their table. Heartburn, apparently, strikes out of the blue. (Who thinks of this stuff?) Nexium, the purple pill was also featured, but the advertiser was adamant about viewers asking their doctor first. Must be a prescription med. Except for the last few months of three pregnancies, I’ve never “suffered” from heartburn. Now that I’m older, I do. I thought I was one of a mere handful of people with this annoyance. I am obsessively circumspect about medication. I take as few pills as possible, probably because I am dumb enough to actually read all that stuff on the back of the bottles about side effects. Every last word of it. Some side effects are scary. “Xxxxx may cause nausea, dizziness, diarrhea, constipation, upset stomach, headache, muscle aches, stuffy nose, risk of bone fractures, fever, vomiting, painful urination, itching, chills, cancer, heart disease and -- the scariest one of all which is usually mentioned last – sudden death. I now have a prescription for heartburn that I only take when needed, so I thought it not worth mentioning to my friends. That is, until a few weeks ago when I was one of a fivesome dining at Da Eduardo’s Foxtown Grille, an excellent Italian restaurant in downtown Detroit. I finished my lasagna, praised it to the sky and dabbed at the corners of my mouth with a large black linen napkin. “I have to go home and take my heartburn pill,” I said, half in jest. “I already took mine,” one of my dining companions said. “So did I,” said another. “I take mine every morning,” said a third. “I have mine right here in my purse,” the fourth diner said. “Do you want one?” After a certain age, we’re all in the same boat.]]>Tue, 18 Feb 2014 16:06:05 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/necessity-is-the-motherMy mother came late to driving. She was born in 1908, grew up in Cincinnati riding its streetcars and busses. She roared through the Twenties and weathered the Great Depression. Those Depression years served as her excuse for the collection of used string, deteriorating rubber bands, glass jars and lids, and gently used aluminum foil (which she called tinfoil) stored in her basement. “You never know when you might need a nice big mayonnaise jar,” she said, “with a lid.” My dad agreed. She and my dad married in 1938. She was 30 and was considered teetering on the edge of old maidhood. They moved to Detroit and rented an apartment. She didn’t need to drive, she said. My dad’s car took him to and from work in downtown Detroit five days a week. My mother stayed home where she cleaned and washed and ironed and cooked. She walked to the local market every afternoon to shop for ingredients for their evening meal. Household chores were divvied up in a rather rigid unfair manner in the 1940s. He worked outside their home. She took care of their apartment and later on, their house. That meant cleaning, washing, ironing, cooking, and eventually, child care. I was born. They bought a house. I rode a bus to and from school. When I was in second grade, I wanted to be a Brownie, which meant I had to stay after school for an hour or two. The bus was long gone. I needed a ride home. My mother broke down and learned to drive. My dad started teaching her, but I remember the project quickly deteriorated into arguments, nitpicking, audible sighing, eye-rolling, and eventually, bouts of self-rightous sulking and long periods of stony silence. She eventually took driving lessons from a professional, passed with flying colors and obtained a driver’s license. But she was never comfortable with left turns or parallel parking. In the 1940s, most couples had one car. Father drove it to work four days a week. Once day each week he took the bus or got a ride from a friend so Mother could do her weekly errands. My mother did the grocery shopping, went to the cleaners, the drug store, the hardware store, the department store and the library, scheduled doctor and dentist appointments, had lunch with her friends – everything – all in one exhausting day. Ever the pragmatist, my mother solved the left turn phobia by mapping a route to the places she needed to go – by only making right turns. On her day with the car, my father would back it out of our driveway and park it on the street before he left for work. My mother drove the six or seven blocks to the grocery store in a preplanned circlular route – going one block too far so she could make a right turn into the parking lot. She had a favorite parking slot that was easy to pull into. If her choice slot was not available, she went home (again, only right turns) and went back to the store later. We always had food in the house. As far as I know, my mother never had an accident, not even a fender-bender. And I had a ride home from my Thursday afternoon Brownie meeting.]]>Fri, 10 Jan 2014 03:16:56 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/three-worthy-books-to-tryHere in Michigan, as across most of the country, we’re snowed in, iced over, cooped up, chilly, bored and (in my case) eating too much because there’s nothing else to do. Popcorn becomes entertainment. Ice cream becomes comfort. And I’m getting grumpier and grumpier. The only good thing about three snow days in a row? Plenty of time to read. Here are three books that made me less grumpy.One Summer, America, 1927 by Bill Bryson. I got a wide-eyed up-front feel for what was going on in America in the 1920s, the summer of 1927 in particular. The season was plumb full of unusual news stories, but Bryson re-tells them in his rambling, digressive, meticulously researched way. First, there was Charles Lindbergh’s solo flight across the Atlantic, then Babe Ruth’s home run spree, Calvin Coolidge’s laconic presidency, elaborate schemes to prohibit Prohibition, Sacco and Vanzetti’s murder trial and the exploits of Al Capone and other unsavory characters. The first Ford Model A slid off the production line in Dearborn, MI. Jack Dempsey and Gene Tunney danced around the ring at Chicago’s Soldier Field to determine who the real champion would be. Bryson’s book is, as usual, carefully researched. (Where does this man find the time to do this? I’ll bet he hires a team to do it for him). It’s peppered with big round numbers – “11,700 people died in 1927 alone from imbibing drink poisoned by the government.” It’s loaded with statistics – “the J.L. Hudson Company of Detroit in 1927 opened the world’s tallest department store, at more than 20 stories, and Cleveland saw the topping out of the 52-story Union Terminal Building, the second-tallest building in the world.” It delves into the more private lives of heroes-of-the-day – “Whenever Babe Ruth was missing from his usual haunts, he could be found in a movie theater sitting in a middle seat near the front, his broad face a picture of pride and delight as he watched a six-reel film called Babe Comes Home, starring himself and the Swedish actress Anna Q. Nilsson.” It offers insider information –“The film was by all accounts dreadful” and unsavory truths – “Henry Ford devoted much of his life to humiliating his son, Edsel. Although he had appointed Edsel president of the company in 1919 . . . he belittled his son in front of others and countermanded his orders.” I loved this book. As I’ve said before, I’d pay good money just to read Bill Bryson’s grocery list. He is a master of engaging prose, accurate research, interesting details and wry observations. ★★★★out of four stars.The Valley of Amazement by Amy Tan. Ever since The Joy Luck Club was published in 1989, I have loved Amy Tan’s fiction. The Joy Luck Club was brilliant; The Kitchen God’s Wife was a spellbinding sequel; The Hundred Secret Senses was good, The Bonesetter’s Daughter was kind of good; Saving Fish from Drowning – not so good. Does anybody else see what's happening here? I think Tan has exhausted her subject matter, which is always the same: Chinese history, Chinese-Americans and the love-hate relationships between mothers and daughters of all nationalities. The Valley of Amazement, alas, was neither amazing nor did it delve into new subject matter. It was long, wandering, repetitive. Tan told – instead of showed – what every character was thinking and why. The plot in some places zipped along; in other places crawled painfully forward. And for some reason, the story was told backwards. First Violet tells of her starved-for-love-and-attention childhood as the daughter of a courtesan in Shanghai. She tells how she was sold and trained to please her customers, wealthy respectable men. She describes her clients, her loves, her betrayals, her “marriage,” motherhood and widowhood. Then, inexplicably, Tan tells Violet’s mother’s story -- a childhood without affection, her resulting rebellion, an unplanned pregnancy (Violet) and a slow boat to Shanghai with her lover. I’m convinced that after some authors write a couple of really successful best-sellers, nobody dares edit his or her subsequent writings. For sure, it happened to Joyce Carol Oates. She's good at finding new subject matter, but she writes and writes and repeats and retells and gets more and more redundant within each subsequent book. Nobody has the nerve to tell her to edit, for God’s sake. Pare the story down to essentials. Just the good stuff. Oates, who is certainly a wonderful writer, cranks out one monstrous tome after another, year after year. Now (even though it took her eight years to write The Valley of Amazement) it’s happening with Amy Tan and I want to tell her, politely and respectfully, to write a tightly plotted novel about – oh, say, the mafia; or an luxury ocean liner that sinks on its maiden voyage in the northern Atlantic; or a serial killer who stalks Chinese-American women with unbound feet in Fargo, N.D. To tell the truth, The Valley of Amazement is only worth ★★ out of four stars, but because of Tan’s reputation and my admiration for her skill, I’ll give it ★★★ out of four.The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion by Fannie Flagg. How do I classify Fannie Flagg’s books. Humor? Exaggeration? Romance? Mystery? Southern Fiction? Feminist? All of the above and more. Sookie Poole of Point Clear, Alabama, is a happily married 59-year-old woman who has finally paired off her three daughters with over-the-top spectacular weddings. She is looking forward to her husband’s retirement and their golden years together. Truly a Southern Belle, appearances are important to Sookie – impeccable manners, proper dress, her prized collection of silver flatware that’s been passed down for generations (and which must never be divvied up), family legends and the material trappings of gracious Southern living. Point Clear is small enough that everybody knows – or speculates about -- what everybody else is up to. Sookie is a devoted wife and mother, but tends to overreact, never venturing too far from her stash of smelling salts. She jumps to conclusions and imagines farfetched consequences from the most mundane events. She also has an 88-year-old overbearing narcissistic drama queen of a mother who intimidates and micromanages the whole family. One day, Sookie opens a letter addressed to her mother and it changes her life. It would be a spoiler if I disclosed why the novel then alternates between Sookie’s overdramatized predicament and the lives of a Polish family in Wisconsin who owned a filling station in the 1940s. But I couldn’t stop reading. At first, I thought Flagg’s story was too fluffy for my taste, but I quickly got caught up in it and couldn’t stop reading. It’s a quick read with some interwoven history about women pilots in World War II. They were unsung heroines for sure. I thought this book was going to be a dud, but it turned into two days of enjoyment rated ★★★ (out of four) stars.]]>Sun, 22 Dec 2013 17:21:32 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/good-news-who-can-argue-with-thatI love newspapers. The Sunday, Dec. 1, 2013, issue of the Detroit Free Press was packed with the usual razzle dazzle bad news – a promising med student’s terrible last moments of life when he caught a couple of thugs breaking into his apartment; Detroit’s city retirees’concern about their promised pensions, now in jeopardy because of the city’s pending bankruptcy settlement; various crashes – a helicopter in Glasgow and an airplane in Nambia; protests-turned-violent in Thailand and Ukraine; the Syrian War. And more. Much, much more. Stay with me, here. The December 1 Freep also contained heart-warming stories about humans displaying their intrinsic goodness. I’ve noted an increasing trend by this newspaper to dig up good news about the human condition and report it on the first few pages. I like that. I read about a fundraising campaign to repair the toppled steeple from a 112-year-old Detroit church. I read an article promoting something called an Owl Prowl – a hike through the woods, then a lecture about owls, a bonfire and S’mores. I saw good news about the Goodfellows’ annual newspaper sale which raises money for holiday gifts for 35,000 kids. I read about the amazing number of shoppers who supported Small Business Saturday and an inspiring article about Judge Damon Keith’s life and accomplishments. Hang in there. There’s more. I also read about two amazing ways to make silk purses out of sow’s ears, so to speak, as well as good ways to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Here’s what I found:

With the property owner’s permission, a bunch of homeless, jobless men are clearing scrap metal on the site of a former junkyard. They have his OK to sell what they find. Some of these men make as much as $150 a day. It’s honest work. They have formed a community, a family of sorts. They share conversation and meals. The land owner would have to clean up the land anyway before selling or building on the site. The men earn an honest day’s pay. The owner wins. The men win. Who can argue with that?

Selected inmates in Michigan prisons are raising puppies as future leader dogs for the blind. Prison must be a lonely, depressing existence. A new puppy, bubbling with unconditional love and licks and wags and optimism would be just the thing, so to speak. Potential leader dogs need to be socialized. Inmates need hope and a sense of usefulness and self-worth. Inmates win. Leader Dogs for the Blind wins. Puppies win. Who can argue with that?

Merry Christmas and Good Will to Men and Women.]]>Sat, 07 Sep 2013 01:35:31 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/i-was-a-wussOur TV set was turned on, but low. It was a small black and white set, a portable box with rabbit ears placed precariously on top, situated on a wobbly metal stand in the corner of the living room. The four-room apartment (two bedrooms, a living-dining area and a kitchen) was one I had just moved into and was about to share with three other brand new, fresh-out-of-college inexperienced teachers. The first day of school was looming and we were about to meet our students. I was young and green and this was my first “real” job. I had worked several part time jobs before – organizing research data for a chemistry professor in Ann Arbor, selling clothes in a department store in my home town, selling hardware and heavy-duty locks in a bicycle shop in Ann Arbor and as a Kelly Girl in Detroit for one long, hot, un-air-conditioned summer. I had just been hired to teach English and social studies to seventh and eighth graders in the Livonia Public School system. Yikes! This was serious employment. I had just moved into an apartment with three friends and we were getting settled. We moved the few pieces of furniture we begged and borrowed from parents and relatives into the bare spaces. The TV set was cheap, but new. We painted old tables and chests and cleaned old rugs and raided our parents’ basements for sets of dishes and pots and pans and flatware. We had just finished buying a week’s worth of groceries—an investment of $20 apiece! We were sharing summer experiences and unpacking our belongings. The TV was mere noise. I was making lesson plans; reading curriculum guidelines; driving back and forth to my new school – Emerson Junior High School in Livonia – to prepare my classroom for the first day. I would soon face two groups of 30-plus seventh graders and some smaller classes of kids who needed help with reading skills. Would they like me? Would I like them? Would I be able to teach them what they were supposed to learn in seventh grade? Would I hold their attention? Would I be able to keep classroom highjinks under control? Would I inspire them? Would I be a successful teacher? I was thrilled to be given this chance. I was also scared to death. My focus, that day, was on lesson plans, classroom bulletin boards and my own self confidence. The TV was tuned to a rally in Washington, DC, and Martin Luther King Jr. was on the steps of the magnificent Lincoln Memorial giving an impassioned speech to thousands of people. I glanced occasionally at the TV.I had tunnel vision in those days. The fits and starts of the Civil Rights movement was a static-like noise buzzing along the edges of my consciousness. The 50th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, delivered on that day when I didn’t pay attention, has triggered these memories. In 1963, I had no idea how bad things were for black people in the South. Neither did most of the people I hung around with. We grew up in Michigan, vacationed in Canada and had very few black acquaintances, none of them from the South. Looking back on the Civil Rights movement in the 1950s and 60s and 70s, I remember supporting the peaceful pushes for progress, but I must admit I did not contribute anything of significance to any of the important advances that have taken place. Nothing. President Barak Obama recalled King’s famous speech and the landmark 1963 rally last week and noted that many institutional barriers are yet to be overcome, but he said, “We’ve made enormous strides.” We have. No thanks to me, however. I was a wuss. And I am ashamed.]]>Mon, 29 Jul 2013 22:14:36 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/five-new-books-worth-readingThe Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls by Anton DiSclafani. This coming-of-age narrative, released in June 2013, was terrific in the middle. Thea and her twin brother Sam are growing up on a prosperous Florida citrus farm in the 1930s during the Great Depression. Their parents are well-meaning, but solitary and strange. Thea and her cousin Georgie become sexually – uh – well -- “involved” might be the word I’d pick. Thea’s parents find out and punish her by sending her away to an exclusive but remote riding camp for girls in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina. Thea is an excellent horsewoman and the meat of the story is how she survives camp and “finds herself.” She is naïve and immature, but acutely aware of her sexuality. This leads to trouble, of course. After the second plot point, the author drones on and on for pages and pages, winding the story down to its whimpering finish. The book is nicely written, but a little too slow to start; a little too long to finish. The middle three-quarters are excellent. Three out of four stars. SweetSalt Air by Barbara Delinsky is a new novel by an established author. I read Together Alone by Delinsky three years ago and this Sweet Salt Air confirmed what I wrote in my review back then.“Hmmmm,” I said to myself. “Self: This must be ‘romance’ fiction.” I don't like romance fiction.This might be a form of the romance category because I kind of liked it. I tolerated it. Romances, I understand, have several common denominators: A romantic relationship is primary. The plot is predictable. Everything works out in the end.That's this book to a T. Two romantic relationships are the main threads of the plot. I figured out what was going to happen by the time I was one-third into it. The surprises were not surprising. The finale was obvious. Two characters dominate.They’re childhood friends who meet again at a home in Quinnipeague, Maine, where they spent many summers together while growing up. Charlotte, the protagonist, is a freelance journalist and photographer. She’s not married, has no children and lives a life that’s footloose and free. Her assignments allow her to travel all over the world. Nicole is a Martha Stewart clone. She loves to cook and entertain and make things look pretty. She has a husband, Julian, who has MS and she wants to have a baby, but is reluctant to do so because of his medical issues. The two friends are writing a cookbook together about herbs and recipes of the inhabitants of Quinnipeague. Two romances unfold. Charlotte meets Leo. He has a prison record and a shady past and a reputation for being gruff and grumpy. Nicole’s husband’s MS symptoms are getting worse and his treatments are not working. A long-kept secret (there’s always a secret, isn’t there?) is revealed and the friendship (as well as the cookbook) seem doomed. But just as it was in Together Alone, everything gets tied up too nicely, too neatly, too predictably. I read the whole thing – all 400 pages – with some enthusiasm, so the it must have something going for it. Three out of four stars.The Silent Wife by A.S.A. Harrison., I loved this book. It is another psychological give and take, push and pull, his and her take on events, much like the recent bestseller Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn (which I reviewed in this blog on 4/11/2013.) Chapters alternate points of view: first Jodi, then Todd. The two have been living together for 20 years but have never married. They are an odd pair. Jodi, a psychotherapist, believes if you ignore something, it didn’t happen. Jodi is also a stickler for order, routine and domestic perfection.Todd, a self-made entrepreneur, is a serial philanderer who finds himself caught in a mess of his own making. Early on, we know that Jodi will commit murder and Todd will be the victim. But how Harrison gets to that precise point and what happens afterward makes for a gripping read. Released in June 2013, this new novel gets four out of four stars from me.Enon by Paul Harding is slated to be released in September 2013. Charlie Crosby’s 13-year-old daughter Kate is killed in an automobile accident while riding her bike home from the beach. He’s devastated. After the funeral, Charlie’s wife leaves.For good. The plot concerns the next year of Charlie’s life as he wallows and wades through grief for his adored daughter. Apparently, Charlie and his wife were not happy, so he invested everything into his relationship with his daughter.Charlie grieves. He decends into drug use, more drug use, worse drug use, burglary, and more. The plot sagged in the middle. At first, I wanted to say, “Snap out of it Charlie and start healing yourself.” After a few hundred pages of irresponsible and self-destructive behavior, I wanted to say, “Sorry, Charlie” and throw the book aside. Alas, I forced myself to finish it. Two out of four stars.The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert. I think Elizabeth Gilbert overanalyzed and overdramatized her divorce, her life, her new lover and the possibility of a second marriage in her previous two best-selling memoirs Eat, Pray, Love and Commitment.

I enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love. But about half way through, I wanted to shake Gilbert until her head wobbled and say, “Stop dithering and make up your mind!”Commitment was one long dither about the institution of marriage. TheSignature of All Things, however, is fiction. It’s a crackling good beautifully-written multi-themed family saga. Five hundred pages of family saga!The protagonist is Alma Whittaker, a big-boned, unattractive, intelligent, educated woman living in Philadelphia in the middle of the 19th century. She becomes a brilliant botanist, a scholar, an expert in her field, a respected published author, all unusual feats for women at the time of America’s Civil War. Alma is not quite as brilliant, however, when it comes to love. She’s starved for affection, sexual fulfillment and . . . . true love. Alma’s search for love begins with a crush that is cruelly squelched, then an unusual marriage to Ambrose Pike, who she thinks will be her soul mate. The marriage gets off to a bad start and goes downhill rapidly. Ambrose is packed off to Tahiti to paint pictures of orchids. He dies. Alma travels to Tahiti to figure out what happened. The plot involves scientific exploration, adventure, travel, sociology, psychology, sex (or the lack thereof), theories of evolution and religion – even Charles Darwin himself. An amazing amount of research must have gone into the creation of this novel. Elizabeth Gilbert – hats off to you. The Signature of All Things is to be published in October 2013. Four out of four stars.]]>Wed, 03 Jul 2013 02:21:12 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/now-hear-this-i-said-now-hear-thisAs we get older, body parts stop doing what they have done so effortlessly for so long. I hate this part of getting older. First it’s the eyes; then the knees; the hips; the skin; the bladder. What’s next?

Ears. I said EARS.

For months, my closest friends have insisted my ears are not listening up to their potential.

I had my hearing tested by an audiologist and indeed, I do have some hearing loss. It’s about the same amount of deterioration in both ears, higher and lower tones, pretty even. The audiologist showed me a graph and the plotted points for my hearing ability clearly fell below the “normal hearing” line.

She sells hearing aids, of course. So I signed up for a two-week free trial and drove home wearing two tiny mid-to-lower-price-range hearing aids. (There were four price levels, from expensive to outrageous.) These nice little battery- driven thingies were almost exactly the color of my hair and sprouted miniscule wires that -- if I can believe everybody I encountered during the two week trial period -- were absolutely invisible. Or nearly so.I don't care if people can see my hearing aids; I just don't want to miss anything. My friend Lynne calls it the FOMO syndrome. Fear Of Missing Out.

I wore those tiny sound suckers for two weeks. I went to the theater. To a movie. To several noisy restaurants. To play pickleball in a cavernous gym. To play Mah Jongg on a secluded screened porch. To watch TV. To stay home all day doing household chores. To weed my garden. To work on my computer.

Indeed, my hearing improved. I could hear birds. In restaurants with lots of background noise, I could focus clearly on one conversation.Those itsy bitsy inventions adjusted automatically to screen out background clutter.

Most conversations were clearer. The TV volume could be lowered. Talking on the phone was fine. I didn't have to say "huh?" as much. Music sounded a bit tinny, but I adjusted the bass and treble settings on my car radio and at home, too.

I liked these hearing aids.

The weeks wore on. When I'm wearing a heavy necklace or bracelet or big, dangly earrings all day, I look forward to getting home at night so I can take the damn things off. They don’t hurt, but they’re just – foreign. Soon, I began to regard the hearing aids in the same way. They didn’t hurt. I just couldn’t wait to take them off.

By the end of two weeks, I was leaving them home more and more often. I'll choose when I'd wear them, I decided. I’ll use them when I go to the theater, a movie, a bustling restaurant, a cocktail party or a lecture, but I'll opt out when I'm playing cards or sitting on the beach reading, or working at home in a quieter, calmer environment.

At the end of two weeks I turned the hearing aids in.

The price (more than $3,000) and the fact that I looked forward to NOT wearing them were the tipping points.

I decided to wait until my hearing is more of a problem than it is now. I know they work for me. But I also know they’re not two new perfect replacement ears that can hear as well as my own did when I was a teenager.

Maybe, in a year or two or three, when friends start ignoring me or getting miffed because they have to repeat and repeat, I’ll go back and try again.

I decided not to spend close to $4,000 for something I’ll keep in a box next to my toothbrush.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.]]>Sat, 15 Jun 2013 20:08:50 GMThttp://margiereinssmith.weebly.com/most-recent-blogs/lessons-from-my-fatherWhen my father was alive, finding a suitable Father’s Day gift for him was challenging. He said he already had everything he wanted. Except the use of his legs.Right after he retired, my dad contracted a form of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS). Fortunately, it was a slow-progressing variety of what is often called Lou Gehrig’s Disease. He lived with it for nearly 30 years as he gradually lost the use of more and more muscles. It seemed to mostly affect his legs. He used a motorized wheelchair for the last 15 years or so of his life. Two things stand out sharply from the multitude of life lessons I gleaned from my father. He was a man of few words. My mother affectionately referred to him as “the tall, strong, silent type.” Most of what I picked up was by observation and osmosis. I learned the satisfaction of hard, meaningful work; pride in a job well done; the values of honesty, loyalty, kindness and promise-keeping. He showed me how important it was to maintain a close, loving family and to tolerate other people’s foibles. I think these are the usual parent-to child life lessons. But he vocalized -- actually spoke out loud -- two things I remember vividly.Whatever you give away will come back to you tenfold.

I already knew he was generous with his material possessions as well as with his time and patience, but I considered this pronouncement a pretty clever way of stating his thoughts on this topic. Only recently, did I realize it is a quotation from the Bible. I thought my father made it up. During his nearly 25-year retirement from a successful career as a commercial artist, he painted. He eventually created a market for watercolor paintings of the homes, boats, cottages and gardens of people in his community. He also painted local landmarks and points of interest – churches, libraries, shopping districts, schools, scenes of Lake St. Clair, farmers’ markets, War Memorials, statues and city halls. He usually did a rough sketch on site, then took photos. Later, when he depended more on his motorized wheels, I took photos of potential subjects for him. He wanted to get the details perfect – the exact placements of dormers, the right number of panes in double hung windows, the details of weathervanes, the colors of flagstone paths, the patterns of stonework and brickwork. If he wasn’t happy with his first attempt, he started over and painted another; and another, until he was satisfied. Sometimes he gave these “first drafts” away. This drove my mother nuts. She pointed out that they were, after all, on a fixed income, that he was a well-known local artist and flooding the market with giveaways would undermine the value of his work. She worried that people would take advantage of him. “Whatever you give away will come back tenfold,” he repeated. He was right. He had everything he ever wanted.Go the extra mile.

This was another lesson my father actually verbalized. When you take on a task, he said, do the best you can, then do something extra, something special or unexpected. He grew up in Cincinnati in a family he claimed always had enough to eat and a place to live, but never had money left over for frills and luxuries. When he was in his 20s, working during the day and going to art school at night, he entered a contest sponsored by a movie theater in his neighborhood. Let’s call it The Bijou because I don’t remember its name. The contest rules were to make a list: “Ten Reasons Why I Should Buy a Season Pass to the Bijou.” My dad thought of 10 good reasons, then illustrated each one with a drawing or a humorous cartoon. He won first prize – a Model T. Plus a season pass to the Bijou.